


Older, Wiser

by Missy



Category: Venture Bros
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Drama, F/M, Humor, Kidnapping, Women Being Awesome, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years in the future, Dean Venture is an award-winning children's book author, and Brock Samson is still his bodyguard.  But a sinister force looks to rid the world of Dean Venture's presence once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon AU, and it diverges at around the middle of season 3. So 21 and 24 are still wisecracking at each other, and The Monarch pulled off a Heel/Face turn to persue the Phantom Limb, Triana and Dean are married, and Molatov is alive. This is a rather old fic, but it was posted on request.

Brock Samson exhaled a lungful of pure Virginia-grown air as he tapped his foot against the hotel room wall. To the casual observer, he looked bored and tired, a weather-beaten blond whose face and thinning mullet told the tale of his fifty years better than his still-strong and muscle-corded body could. But take one step out of line, betray one hint of malice...

He had his fist curled around the throat of the shadowed figure before it could fully emerge from Room 12. Jaw knotted, eyes wide with a powerful zeal, he glared into the pitiful face of his kill...

And felt disappointment sink in at the sight of the terrified, skinny, pimple-speckled face of the concierge. He gradually released his grip, allowing the boy to sink down rear-first onto the floor.

"Hey," he said. "You okay?"

The boy gasped and groaned, his face a livid shade but his lungs rapidly expanding. He would make it, Brock reassured himself lightly.

"All right then," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his monkey suit and striding up to the penthouse suite.

Typically - and to his frustration - the door was unlocked, and inside the usual circus that accompanied Dean and Triana's lives was in full swing. He waded through the pile of discarded black tulle and discarded manuscript pages entered the day suite, where the noise was its loudest.

A smile snuck across his face as he saw Dean lying face-up on the bed. He had three-year-old Abigail at his side and he was enthusiastically reading her Where The Wild Things Are. The little girl's coal-colored eyes were wide and enthralled, making her resemble the very embodiment of her father's long-lost innocence.

The smile turned to a slight frown as he laid eyes on Triana, who was feeding Jonas the Third a very messy-looking jar of strained pears, endangering her brand new and hand-made black velvet gown. They were late enough already - he didn't want to suffer through another ten minutes of "change the dress".

Dean was so enthralled by the book that he didn't even notice his bodyguard's presence, so it was Triana who greeted him. "We'll be ready in a sec, Brock," she said.

"Oh, hi Brock!" Dean called. "Say hi to Uncle Brocky!" he requested of Abigail, who looked up at her pseudo-uncle with Bambi-sized eyes.

Brock waved back awkwardly, his teeth clenched; despite his constant presence in Dean and Triana's lives Abigail had never warmed up to him. "Hi, Abby," he said.

The little girl grabbed her father's thin forearm and began to wail.

Dean gave Brock an apologetic look, taking Abigail into his arms and hugging her. "Golly, I don't know why she always does that!"

"She gets it from her mother!" Brock yelled over the wailing.

"Funny stuff, old man," Triana responded, wiping Little Jonas' face with a soft bib. "Well, I'm set," she said, taking Jonas out of his high chair and reaching out to pet the head of Abigail. "ABBY. IF YOU DON'T STOP CRYING, I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE YOU TO GRANDPA'S TONIGHT."

Abigail clammed right up, for any threat of missing time with Grandpa Byron made her sadder than the blond giant at the foot of the couch.

"Okay, I have to change his diaper and wipe your nose - Dean, get your shoes on."

"I'm afraid I never found them," Dean confessed. "I took them off after the cocktail party and they disappeared in the zwieback and satin."

Triana froze. "That's lovely. You should write it down."

"You think so? I though it was a little over-the-top."

"THE PLAY STARTS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES," Brock snapped.

"Easy, grandpa," Triana smirked, picking Abigail up in her free arm. "We'll only be a couple of minutes."

Brock winced as his teeth ground firmly together. He looked at Dean, who was stuffing his feet into a pair of tennis shoes. "Do you think anyone'll notice?"

He looked at Dean's formal suit and then down at the shoes. "You'll do fine. They don't make the writer get up on stage to take a bow, right?"

"I don't know," Dean confessed as he put a palm against his heart. "Can you believe it, Brock? My first play!"

A grin spread across Brock's face - damn, the kid's enthusiasm caught well. "Hey, there's Johnny Starfall cartoons, Johnny Starfall lunchboxes, Johnny Starfall movies - why not a play?"

"Remember when I couldn't get anything published?"

Brock did; it was the first time he'd ever expressed how sorry he felt for Dean out loud. Hank had just joined the marines and with the now-eighteen kid out of his jurisdiction he'd been forced to put his full attention on college freshman Dean. It had been a hellish road to multi-millionaire publication, franchises and settled fatherhood for Dean, but the result had been enriching.

"You made it, kid - now's the time to sit back and enjoy the plunder."

Dean got up grinning. "Do you think Pop would've been proud of me?"

Despite himself, Brock grinned. "I think he'd be damn proud of you." He cleared his throat to drive away the emotion. "Lemme check the hall one more time," he said, leaving before Hank could notice the slight quiver in his lips.

***

"I understand you're the best in your field."

"I am the best operative in my country."

"Ahh, such boldness. I sense you won't fail me."

"How much will you pay for this treasure?"

"A billion rubles and two cases of Angel Soft."

"I will bring you the man."

"I know you will, Molotov. Your honor demands it of you."

Mol turned away smoothly, covering her remaining eye with locks of graying hair. "Honor has little to do with this," she said, her hand fingering a silky lock of hair in the pocket of her cat suit. She smiled as she felt the scabby richness of old blood at its very tip. A disapproving grunt brought her out of her trance. "I will bring you Dean Venture," she said, turning and clicking her way out of the room, "dead or alive."


	2. Chapter 2

rock hated being chauffeured. Had he been the analytic sort he might have been able to figure out that he didn't like ceding control to another person, that his pure animal instinct demanded dominance. Simple things like being driven somewhere else made him tense and unhappy.

"Golly, New York is lovely at night!" Dean remarked, pressing his forehead to the smoked glass. 

"The architecture's incredible," Triana agreed, watching the world over his shoulder. Brock looked up and noticed their casual but comfortable tableau - their love was of the supportive variety without seeming smothering. The slightest pinch of envy irritated Brock, but it was quickly gone. "How many times have you been to New York, Brock?" Triana asked.

"Eh, once on a convention. The Pad Thai on 86th Street is great - the hookers are all sloppy drunks, though, and they cost, like, twice what they should. There was this girl named Weezy up in Madame Guerros who used to..."

Dean's alarmed cough and the shifting of Triana's knees cut off Brock's story. Somewhere deep within his cool exterior, Brock twitched as his two charges tried not to seem uncomfortable.

"Uh - hey, look, we're here!" he said too-cheerfully, as the limo stopped and the door swung open. He stepped out, checked the immediate parameter for suspicious types, and then gestured for Dean and Triana to exit the limo.

A murmur went up from the crowd - Dean was one of the better-known children's fantasy authors on the New York Times bestseller's list, but his face wasn't particularly well-known. If anyone remembered him, it was as the son of Doctor Venture, the crackpot who killed himself and half of the UN trying to present his thermal reactor for grant money. 

Brock tried to think of himself as lucky, of the boys as lucky, because Doc had insisted on going alone to the conference so no one else could bask in his glory. His vanity had for once done some good and saved a few lives. 

Dean signed a few tremulously-held pieces of paper - slips possessed by children and teenagers who could spit out facts about Jonny Starfall faster than Dean could write them. 

"Mister Venture! Mis - ter - venture! Why have the last two editions of Jonny Starfall been late?" one fan asked as Dean scribbled his name over his own face on the book jacket.

"You'll have to ask Stan Lee," Dean said. "He's my extra special helper on the comic books!"

" Don't you have any control over those daemons at Marvel?" He waved an issue under Dean's nose. "Velma The Angel of Cheese was mis-identified as Jonny's mother last issue! It's a continuity trainwreck!" then he added, passionately, "how can I go on roleplaying?"

Brock bit back a comment - the kid was no older than ten, with a fresh mist of zits and a home-made construction paper Armando The Alligator costume. 

"Aww, I think the comics are nifty! And they're lots of fun to read if you're on a plane or stuck in traffic or being held captive by an Abominable Snowperson who's really a mad Chucky Cheese employee!"

Brock's hand clamped over Dean's shoulder - he was dangerously close to revealing too much about his childhood. "Mister Venture has to go inside now!"

Triana had already escaped to the lobby and was adjusting her maroon-colored wrap by the bar when Dean and Brock shook loose of the crowd. Dean took Triana by the arm and Brock escorted them to the front row, a minute before curtain up on the first act of Jonny Starfall's Broadway debut.

Occupying the first row were Jonas Junior, his wife of ten years plus Sally and Super Agent Fourth Class Rocket Impossible. Warm salutations were exchanged between the Ventures, while Brock hung back in the aisle and yearned for a cigarette.

***

As much as Brock respected Dean's talent, his tobacco addiction meant intermission couldn't come quickly enough. At last, the audience filed out of the plush theatre and into the great lobby, where drinks were poured and people hobnobbed. 

"Damn no-smoking laws," he muttered beneath his breath, inching toward the revolving glass doors. Brock's fingers itched as he attempted discipline. Just another hour and he'd be in the limo, and free to do what he needed to do. Keep steady, he chanted to himself. 

Dean cut through the crowd, a half-glass of wine in his hand and the glow of compliments on his face. "Tell Triana I went to take a whiz," he whispered.

Despite himself, Brock felt relief. Triana could take care of herself - and he could take a quick cig break. "No problem," he said casually. A slight doubt niggled his brain - Dean always hated it when he followed him into the men's room, but sometimes it was necessary. Nah - let the kid have a second to pee in peace. 

Brock had just enough time to take a clandestine puff when Dean emerged a moment later, whistling "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands" to himself. The lobby had cleared out and it was seconds before curtain up on the third act. 

Stealthily, Brock extinguished his cigarette on the heel of his palm and pinched the butt into a nearby potted plant. "Ready?" Brock asked, sounding jittery.

"Yup! Where's Triana?"

"I saw her go back inside a minute ago."

Rushing to get back to his seat before curtain up, Dean placed his empty wine snifter on the tray of one of the waitresses circling the empty room. The one he had selected- a woman with narrow green eyes and chin-length black hair, stopped him at the door.

"A gift for you from the producer," she said in an odd New York/British mishmash of an accent.

"Thanks!" Dean picked up the present - it felt oddly heavy and he nearly listed forward while picking it up. "I hope he didn't spend too much money on this..." He opened the box and discarded it on the woman's tray.

Brock focused in on the woman. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

The woman met his gaze insolently. "You have known many women in your time, ne - o?"

"Yeah," Brock said, watching her hands and feet for sudden movement while keeping and eye on Dean as he opened the gift.

When it was unveiled, Brock felt a streak of fear. It was a doll. A heavy baby doll.

"Creepy," Dean remarked, tilting it upside down. 

"NO, DEAN!" he knocked the doll out of his charge's hands. But it was too late, for bluish smoke had begun to billow from its mouth and eye-holes, enshrouding the room. 

"DEAN!' Brock yelled, groping for the kid's hands. Dean was nowhere within reaching distance, forcing Brock to walk blindly forward, searching desperately for something solid. Before he found a door the smoke thinned, revealing an empty room.

"DEAN!" he bellowed again. "Stay still! I'll find you!" Brock rapidly searched every closet and men's room in the vicinity, but it was quickly apparent to him that that waitress - whomever she was - was a kidnapper.

"SUNUVA..." he muttered, running outside and furtively searching every alley near the theatre. After a cursory twenty-minute check of the neighboring buildings and surrounding block, he peered into the sewers for clues. There was nothing but the New York night outside, and not even a ransom note had been left behind. 

Brock wracked his brain and his blood lust-clouded soul for options. The kidnapper was a woman - he couldn't kill her. He didn't have the option of squeezing henchmen for info - there were none. There was no ransom to pay - no trail to follow. The person knew what they were doing, and the lack of tracks made it look like a mercenary option....

Mercenary...

"Oh shit," he muttered. "Mol, you bitch..." Knowing his options were few, he tuned his wrist radio to all-band. "Paging all hailing frequencies - we've got a 10/5! All available bodies report to the Orpheum theater lobby ASAP!"

Quickly, he returned to the theater, seeking to protect Triana. Unfortunately, Rocket and Jonas had intercepted his message and met his appearance with curious eyes.

There was panic in Trinana's. "Where's Dean?"

Instantly, he was in control. "Don't freak out. We have a situation, but it's gonna be fine."

Triana knew too well what 'situations' were; she was out of her chair already. "Who took him?" 

Brock felt pity for the young woman; daughter of necromancers that she was, Triana knew fear too well. "We don't know yet, but you've gotta stay calm."

"What do you need from us, Brock?" Jonas asked.

"Watch Triana. I've got every hero in the vicinity on the case..."

"EVERY hero?" Rocket asked, his eyebrow raised.

Brock's face crumpled slightly. "Hell."

As he spoke forty panels of stained glass surrounding the stage, which had survived all manner of natural disaster, 9/11 and several restoration procedures, shattered as an army of men dressed as butterflies rappelled onto the stage, followed by a much taller man an elegant-looking woman.

"BEWARE EVILDOOERS!" shouted the figure in a snively and yet somehow menacing voice, "for you have invoked the wrath of the Monarch and Ms. Papillion!"

A theater full of people stared blankly at the two heroes onstage. Only a child wept, pointing to where the Monarch stood.

"He killed Jonny Starfall!" 

The Monarch looked down, noticed he was standing on the fallen body of the young actor and climbed down. "Oh shit! My bad, my bad!" 

Whatever else the Monarch said was lost to Brock, who could only hear the grinding of his own teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

Before Brock could call him in for a conference, The Monarch had climbed off of "Jonny Starfall's" back and was striding toward him. "Samson," he said, flicking a bit of broken glass from his shoulder. "What's the emergency? Aliens attacking? Ghost infestation? Mutant sewer dwellers?"

Brock groaned, then answered, "kidnapping."

"The Guild?"

"Looks like mercenary work."

"Mercenary, ay?" The Monarch's brow arched. "No leads?"

"One," Brock busied himself peering at the minions the Monarch had brought with him. "How many guys did you bring?"

"Ten."

Brock grabbed a half-smoked cigarette from the front pocket of his tux. An usher rushed forward. "Excuse me sir, you can't..." he trailed off. For once a single glare had cut down an aggressor.

He took a moment to smoke, projecting an air of confidence while he racked his mind for every little tidbit of information he'd stored about Molotov over the years. It wasn't hard to recall the last time he'd seen her...

***

2009

***

_Brock stared blankly at the polished brass urn balanced between his strong hands. Dumbfoundedly, he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do with it. Couldn't take it upstairs to show the boys they barely understand what had happened to their father, and he wasn't up to explaining the wherefores of cremation to them - especially how their father's hadn't happened intentionally._

_"Damn you, Doc," he growled at the vessel. If you'd thought about the boys for once in your damn life..." His speech ended on a yelp as a cigarette was extinguished upon his bare back, followed immediately by the silky brush of hair brushing the nape of his neck. He shivered._

_"Is my Samson so lonely to be talking to an urn?" purred Molotov, caressing his chest with the tips of her fingernails._

_He cleared his croaking throat and put the vessel on a nearby table. "I thought you were doing recovery work for the Scotland Yard." Brock turned to face her and noted her entirely nonplussed expression._

_"It bored me." Best offer was four crowned heads for five cases of Haggis," she shuddered._

_"You missed the funeral." He winced at his injured tone. In a dark hour two days before he was forced to deliver Rusty Venture's self-written eulogy he'd thought about radioing Mol for support, but his stubborn pride kept him mum._

_"I learned of Venture's demise from contact in Haiti yesterday. He was a weakling and coward, but I would have seen him buried with respect like any common dog."_

_She caressed his thigh with the toe of her boot. "Iwanttobeyourdog," he hissed._

_"Samson," she crooned, drawing him close and stroking his chest, "it is time for you to realize your potential. Join me and we will take the world!"_

_He stared down at her and realized how easy it would be to be weak and allow her to lead him away to some Middle Eastern pleasure palace, spend the rest of his days doing what he did best. But his eyes rested on the urn._

_"I can't," he said._

_"Samson," her voice sharpened, your assignment was to protect Venture!" You owe nothing to those brats."_

_"My assignment was to protect the Venture family," he pushed her gently away. "As long as Dean and Hank are in the line of fire or I get reassigned, I'm staying here."_

_He should have been ready for the blow but didn't expect it to come in the form of a stranglehold. Mol's little hand reached out with lightening quickness and pinched his windpipe, leaving him a red-faced, gasping mess. She leaned toward him and hissed, "do as you will, Samson. Waste your days wiping the noses of those infants!" Her eye opened wider, and she leaned in and with a quick swipe of her tongue and swallowed a bead of sweat from his upper lip. "I will see you buried in the Saint Nicholas before I think of you again!" she snarled, releasing him and walking easily away, leaving Brock to gasp alone on the rec room floor._

***

"What do you suppose he's thinking of?" Henchman 21 asked, watching Brock's stern and unchanged expression.

"I don't know!" whined 24. "I just wanna get out of this night air, it's making my sinuses drip!"

"We're wasting too much time! Go tap him!"

"Are you crazy!? I'm not ready to die, I just finished paying off my Sonata!"

Brock snapped back to reality, realizing that he stood center-stage in an evacuated theater. "Saint Nicholas," he muttered, then shouted, "get me the coordinates for Saint Nicholas Cathedral!"

Assorted fingers tapped at portable radios and communicators. "15 East 97th Street!" Lady Papillon announced, pointing to the location on her pocket-sized tracking device.

"Did you bring the Cocoon?" Brock asked The Monarch.

"All gassed up and ready to go."

"Okay - Jonas, Rocket, you're coming with me in the Cocoon."

"What about us?" Triana asked.

Brock looked at the three women before him and assessed the risks. Lady Papillion could handle herself in combat, but Sally was only a couple of cuts above a civilian in the usefulness scale, and Triana was nothing more than the depowered daughter of a necromancer"

And if she died, Dean would be suicidal...

"This is a blood vendetta," he said, "no women and children."

"I'd rather not be spoken for," Sally said, the years of silence she had suffered in her marriage to Richard Impossible showing in her eyes.

"We can handle ourselves, Brock," Triana plead, "the waiting's going to hurt me more."

"I can't risk it," he scanned the crowd of Henchmen and pointed to two familiar, if older faces, 21 and 24. "You two - take them across the street and buy dinner."

:Yes, guard them with your lives. The Monarch sidled up to Lady Papillon and wrapped his arms around her waist. "You understand, Kitten?"

"Make up the den while you're in the Cocoon," Lady Papillon retorted.

"Let's go!" Brock barked, leading the charge of men outside and into the vessel." Lady Papillon joined Triana and Sally in the final evacuation out of the theater and across the street."

"Where the hell does Samson get off on excluding us?" barked Lady Papillon, glaring at the craft as it rose to the sky.

"He's not excluding us," Sally said. "Brock's just trying to keep us safe. You know the code down in DC."

Lady Papillion made a frustrated gesture with her arms. "Yeah, I'm familiar with the routine no killing women or children or putting them in harm's way," she snarled. "That's why he used to check me for an Adam's apple"

A hysterical giggle burst from Triana.

"I don't wanna break up the party," said 24, "but Brock said to get you out of here and do dinner. Anyone feel like Bennigans?"

"I'll spluge on extra smashed potatoes!" 21 chimed in.

Automatically, Triana and Sally looked to Lady Papillon for leadership. She shrugged and marched confidently across the street.

***

_He moaned in the darkness and stirred in his close, dark confines. Something told him to struggle, but the energy eluded him. His head felt yucky._

_"Here is your Dean Venture." Dean nearly recognized the lady's voice, but everything was so hazy. A little sliver of light illuminated his sack and he winced._

_"Excellent work, Molotov/. Here's your reward." Dean felt the world shift as the sack changed hands. "The world will thank you for this deed, Ms. Cocktease. I assure you you're doing the community at large quite the service."_

_"I have no care for your 'community," he heard the low mumbling of her counting, then a sudden blasphemy. This is two hundred rubles short!"_

_"The exchange rate is faulty," came the response. "I've paid you exactly what I owe you."_

_"Nyet!" she spat. "You owe me two hundred more and an extra roll of tissue!"_

_A soft noise intended to shame echoed through the hallway. "You should have taken what I chose to give you," the sound of metal colliding with something harder echoed in the night, followed by a loud thump. "Such a pity that they didn't teach you generosity on the collective, Molotov."_

_A violent struggle ensued. Dean groaned and felt ill with motion sickness but remained helpless in his strictures. Finally, it ceased._

_"I will return for you," she snapped._

_"Unlikely!"_

_"I'll shred your heart with my fingers!" she screamed, but the sound was getting further away. Finally there was merciful silence. Then A buzzing noise._

_"Debbie? Take a note: bonuses for the henchmen."_

_The world was going fuzzy again. The sack swung wildly. "Is it him? Is that my snookums?"_

_"Yes, my pet. But you know you shan't keep him.."_

_"Oh, just give me one minute with my baby!" Please, just a second, daddy!"_

_"All right." The sack flooded with light, and suddenly Dean was tumbling free into the brightness. Hands turned him over and cradled him in a soft, familiar lap. "But pet, remember that he belongs to me."_

_Dean tried to open his eyes, but a soothing voice brushed a hand across his cheek._

_"Sssh. Rest, my baby. The morning'll be here before you know it."_

_"But I don' t wanna sleep..."_

_"Sssh..."_

_He tried to fight the exhaustion claiming him, but too quickly Dean succumbed. Quickly, he followed Brock's long-ago orders _never forget a face._ The sight was familiar but didn't bring him to wakefulness._

_As his eyes drifted closed, he connected the face with the voice._

_"Myra," he mumbled, and lost his grip on reality._

****

"Of the many restaurants on that block, 21 selected a Bennigans and led the group to its door. As they waited in line Lady Papillon wrapped a sympathetic arm around Triana." Once they were seated inside she thought to speak, "do you want something to eat, honey?"

"Food'll make me barf," she muttered, studying the menu. "I already feel like I'm going to be sick!"

24 ducked under the booth. "If you have to, do it over there," he pointed at 21.

"Hey!" 21 retorted.

"Calm down, sweetie. "I've gone up against Samson before, and he's the best in his field. If he can't get Dean back, no one can," Lady Papillon remarked.

"Doctor -I mean Lady Papillon is right," Sally said. "Do you want to split some onion rings with me?"

"How can the two of you be calm?" Triana cried out. "My husband could be bleeding to death in an alley!"

"Loaded potato skins are on me!" 24 said, trying to be cheerful.

Triana hunched lower in her seat. "I'm gonna be sick," she moaned. "At that point, her cell phone rang." She answered it for the distraction.

"Hello?"

"PUMPKIN!" Byron Orpheus trilled. "How was the play?"

Triana's nausea disappeared as she took in the sight of her father in a blue snuggli, Jonas the Third sleeping against his midsection. "It never finished. Dad, you need to listen to me. Keep an eye on Abbie and Baby Jonas," she said. "Someone grabbed Dean, they could go after the kids next."

"Kidnappers?" he cried, and attempted a softer version of his Order of The Triad call.

"Dad! The Alchemist retired to the Bahamas a year ago and Jefferson Twilight is in a diabetic coma! Please just watch the kids."

"Pumpkin..." a dark shadow crossed Byron's face. He turned his head to face the sudden intruder.

"Dad?" Triana cried, her heart racing as her point of view shifted. A loud _oof_ echoed as the sound of a baby crying filled the air. "DAD?" she cried desperately, but her only answer was the low buzz of static.

A horrified silence filled the air, finally broken when 21 turned to 24 and asked, "Can I have your smashed potatoes?"


	4. Chapter 4

�The plan is flawless!�

Brock�s eyes narrowed at the Monarch�s proclamation.� Five minutes stuck behind the controls of the Hive and every argument they�d ever had rose up to taunt him.�� Resisting the urge to kill, Brock glanced at The Monarch briefly.� �Yeah?� Whatt�re you thinking of?�

�We sneak into the place � we dress shorty over there �up like some kind of hipster ass and have him start asking the guard questions about these frescos�� he pointed to a video screen, which showed the interior of the Saint Nicholas and a large mural showing the ascension of Jesus.� ��You start doing your badass recon stuff over here,� he pointed to an area several feet away, within the chapel interior.� �When you find what you�re looking for, you give the signal to JJ and he�ll fake a heart attack��

�No more of your lame theatrics, Monarch!� complained Jonas, his protests outmatched by The Monarch.

�YOU�LL FAKE A HEART ATTACK, and while the guard�s distracted, Samson sneaks in, snags whatever the hell he�s looking for, and we burn rubber out of there.� Got it?�� He slammed his fist against his palm enthusiastically.

Jonas locked eyes with Brock.� �Why�s he in charge?� Jonas complained to Brock.

�I have experience!� The Monarch shouted.

�Experience getting your ass kicked,� Rocket smirked.

�Forty years of membership in the Guild of Calamitous Intent!�� The Monarch shrieked.�

�Yeah, didn�t they just retire you?� Brock asked casually, his eyes on the sky.

The Monarch sighed.� �They gold watched me last week.�

�Damnit � why the hell did Quizboy pick this week to go out of town?� Jonas complained.

�Eh, I don�t know - he and Pete always get the week of the Tokyo Gaming Expo off.� S�deal he made with Doc back in the day and Dean �keeps footing the bill.�

�Poor Dean,� JJ mumbled.� �That kid�s way too nice.�

Brock�s jaw locked, his blood beginning to race - his nose strained for the scent of blood and the promise of the kill of the day began to tickle his tongue.� He had failed to protect Dean before but this time he wouldn�t fail.� Oh yes � this time he wouldn�t fail.

***�

The world focused back to life for Dean and he stirred against the plus restraints fettering him to the�bed?�

�Snookie Pie!�� The shill sound of Myra�s voice made Dean�s insides quiver.� She rushed the bed, jumped upon it, wrapped him in her arms.�� �Oh honeylumps, I�m so sorry we had to hurt you!�

Myra�s strong arms nearly choked the life from poor Dean.� He finally forced the words out, �hi, m-mom�� stay frosty, Deano, he ordered himself, then opened his eyes wide and tried to memorize the details of his surroundings.� He had been placed in a very nice-looking bedroom, lined with dark wood and handsomely appointed.�� At the very center of it was a word processor.� �How are you?� he wondered.

�Just fine now that I have my Deanie Bo Beanie back,� she squeezed his cheeks.� �Oh, you�ve gotten so tall since I saw you � and so bald.�

Dean frowned and self-consciously fooled around with his thinning pompadour.� Myra had aged terribly, the strain of her insanity wrinkling and wizening her face to the point of unrecognizability.�� �With no makeup and under the harsh halogen lighting, she strongly resembled a bleached skull Dean had seen once on the Day of the Dead.� �You still look great, Mom.�

�So gentlemanly of you to say so � I work so hard to stay young for you and my Hankie.�� She leaned in close and whispered, �The Mister says he�ll find him soon.� Then we�ll all be together again � won�t that be fun?�

Dean�s insides clenched.� �But Hank�s�� he bit his tongue.� Maybe she didn�t really know where Hank was � he stayed silent, trying desperately to protect his twin.

�I know sweetie � I know just what it feels� like to be so far away from someone you love!� But you and Hankie will be together soon.� And in the meantime, I have someone I want you to meet�.�

Dean braced himself, his hands balling against the thick paisley quilt.� So that was how Dean Venture was going to go out - shackled to a bed in some weird dungeon that smelled like pee - just like the Phantom Limb.

Myra whirled around � between her leathery palms was a framed picture.� �This is My Mister.� He worked extra-special hard to find you and Hank, and to pay him back he just wants you to do one teensy little thing for him.�

Dean stared at the picture.� �Oh, no way!� NO WAY.�

�He�s a really big fan of your Jonny Starfall, and the ending of the last book made him so sad��

�Mom, do you know who this dude is?�

Myra shrugged.� �He helped me find you, and that�s what matters!�� She pointed to the desk.� �Let mommy help you�� she re-arranged his shackles til they held him to the seat.� �He�s left a list of things he does and doesn�t want in the novel.�� Can you be a dear and finish it by five?�

�Five?�

�Or My Mister will blow up the White House.�� She shook her head.� �He�s such a picky fanboy when he�s mad��

�MYRA!� bellowed a voice through the eves.

�Mommy has to go!� she planted a juicy kiss on Dean�s forehead.� �She�ll be back in an hour with a late din-din.�

�But I already a�� the door shut behind her, and Dean�s gaze lowered to the processor, then to the picture.� The visage was enough to put the fear of death in him.

�Brock,� he whined.� �How could you do this to us?�

***�

�Excuse me, Sir,� JJ said in a plumy British accent.� �Do you have the time?�

The security guard squinted down at the short man and his garish red Hawaiian shirt.� Brock spared them a short glance as he and The Monarch causally slipped by them and into the vestibule area � nearly deserted at this time of night, there were thankfully no witnesses to silence.� Brock began to feel his way along the easternmost wall while The Monarch stood in the center of the room, tapping his toe impatiently against the floor.

The Monarch wasn�t far behind.� �Did you find it yet?� he hissed.

�Shut up,� Brock grunted, his hands palming across the wall.� �This is a delicate operation.�

Monarch snorted at the idea of Brock doing anything delicate.� �And for your next trick you can hand-wash Lady Papillion�s unmentionabaah?-�� his jaw dropped as Brock found a wall sconce, pulled on it, and caused a panel in the wall to open.

Brock smiled grimly.� �Getting predictable, Mol.�

�Holy shit,� The Monarch peered around Brock�s flank.� Hidden in the wall of a frequently-used chapel was a small bunker � a bed, contractual papers, belongings, a hotplate for cooking.� �Cocktease�s things?�

Brock stared straight ahead, his mind having vacated the scene��

***�  
2010  
***

�I know you don�t love me�but I�m counting on Paflov�s dogs to make that right again�� Dean closed his book and hugged it to his chest.� �Isn�t that the prettiest thing you�ve ever heard, Brock?�

�Needs more blood,� Brock muttered, his eyes steely as they scanned the lawn.� It was a hellaciously boring spring afternoon, unseasonably warm and dappled with apple blossoms.

�Aww, some things don�t need heads exploding to make them peachy-keen,� Dean corrected.� He looked down at the book in his grip.� �Oh, Scott and Zelda � so young and sweet.� What happened to you?�

�He was a drunk and she was nuts.�� He felt Dean toss an incredulous look his way.� ��I took English lit in high school � three times.�

�Oh.�� Dean�s crestfallen mumbling caused Brock to give up his search and turn toward the boy.

��I�m sorry, Dean.� I�m not into this kind of thing.�� He lit his fifth Marlboro of the hour and took a hard drag.

�I know,� Dean smiled, laying his book aside.� �But even Hank used to pretend to listen for a couple of minutes before yelling at me.�

�S�Only natural to miss your brother.� He�s only been gone for a couple of weeks.�� Brock couldn�t keep himself from grinning � damned if he wasn�t proud of Hank for bulking up and �making it into the Chore.� �He�ll be okay.�

�I know,� Dean nodded.� �It�s just twin stuff, I guess.� You�ve got a brother, so�� �

Brock hadn�t ever felt particularly close to Chuck � he�d always been self-absorbed, hidden away in his room reading comic books at all hours of the day.� �You won�t be alone at Princeton,� Brock added.� �I�ll be there.�

Dean gave a quick bob of his head, then sighed.� �But I won�t be with�her�� his eyes focused in the middle distance beyond Brock�s form.

�Here we go again,� Brock grunted.

Dean sighed, reclining in the high grass on his stomach.� Triana was a hundred feet away, with her friend Kim reclining beside the pool and chatting about finals.� For Dean� apparently even this small distance was too much.� �Brock?�

��Yeah?� he braced himself.

�Do you have any girl advice?� Dean wondered tentatively.

Brock eyed him coolly.� �Wear a cup.�

�Do you know something about Triana that I don�t?� Dean squeaked.

�I was joking, Dean,� Brock replied.� �If you want Triana to notice you, play it cool.�

�Like Willie Aimes?�

Brock facepalmed himself. ��James Dean � think James Dean.�

Dean stuck out his jaw and lowered his brow.� �I can do that,� he slumped and tried to glower.� �I can do that��

�Not Lon Chaney,� Brock retorted.� He hunched lower and Brock chuckled.� �Forget about it.� Read me something from that thing.�� He gestured toward Dean�s volume of the letters of� Nicholas and Alexandra.

Dean grabbed the heavy volume and opened it randomly.� �And now we will have no separations�� he began, absorbing Brock into the tale � her perfume teased his mind.� She was with him whenever he thought of Paris, but Russia...�

He barely felt her breath on the back of his neck that day and, when he looked up, the only evidence of her apparition was a dusting of apple blossoms on his blond head.

***�

�How the hell did you know she was here?� The Monarch wondered.

�When it comes to her,� Brock said, �I�ve got a radar in my head.��

�Or your nuts�� The Monarch retorted.

Brock entered the small room, grabbed a handful of documents.� He shook his head.� �This ain�t like Mol.� She likes the best of everything,�� He snuffled the life of a roach beneath his boot.�� �And it�s not the Hilton.�� He paged through the papers � suddenly, his eyes widened.

�Holy��

�What?� The Monarch shrilled.� Brock balled the paper in his powerful fists.

Childish disbelief sounded in Brock�s voice. �It�s my brother...�

***

The partiton�s door jerked open.� �Okay, come out of the stall with your hands up.�

Triana glared down at Lady Papillion from her perch on the toilet seat.� �Do you have supersonic eyes and ears?�

�I know what it�s like to be a mom,� Lady P pointed out.� �My little Lester may be a thirty-year-old accountant in Cherborgan now, but there was a time when he was my little silkworm.� Honey, I know it�s hard to wait, but trust me � Brock knows how to handle this stuff.�

�Pathetic!� a heavily-accented voice barked from a nearby stall.� �When did you become a weakling, Shiela.�

�Sununvabitch!� mumbled Lady Papillion beneath her breath.

A toilet flushed.� Triana�s mouth dropped open at the sight that emerged from the last stall.� �Her body had softened a little, and her hair was streaked over in white, but there was no mistaking the visage of Molotov Cocktease when you saw it.�

�You seek Dean Venture,� she stated casually.� �I can take you to him.� If the price is�generous.�

Lady Papillion grabbed Triana and shoved her protectively back into the stall.� �You�re one cold-hearted monster, Molotov,� she snapped, her hands hovering just above her photon pistol.

�Yes, and you would know from monsters.� Or were Fantimos� skills wasted on your soft flesh?�

Lady Papillion took one step forward.� �It�s not just Dean�s life we�re dealing with.� The bastard has her kids.�

Mol�s features softened, only slightly.� �Yes, her brats.� I see��

�And he might have Brock Samson��

�BROCK.�� The name seemed to stick in Mol�s throat.� �No.� I�m sure that��

�He would do anything to save them,� Triana emphasizes the anything, and Lady P shot her a quick look of approval � the kid definitely knew how to work a guilt trip.

Mol stood still in the middle of the tiled room, a bottle of poison among cordial cups.� �I will take you to them.� But first, we must test your strength.�

Triana lips hardened � Lady P hadn�t ever seen the usually laid-back woman look so intensely fierce.

�Bring it on,� she said.


	5. Chapter 5

"Christ, Mol, go easy on the girl!" Lady P cried out as she watched the assassin empty a clip of ammo at Triana's wildly scissoring feet. She ran a short course from one tree to another, her eyes dark and vaguely threatening as she rushed toward Mol.

Lady P shuddered. what they said about Central Park was true. You really could murder someone out here in the middle of the night and none would be the wiser.

"ARGH!" she jumped as Molotov cried out - she and Triana were wrestling on the ground, trying in vain to gain dominance over one another. She glanced at Triana's feral expression and felt a wave of nostalgia - damn, the girl would've made a pretty good asset to the guild, back in the day. A pity that she'd decided to go to design school and forego the whole villainy/superscience quagmire.

Molotov laughed. "You have spirit, young one!" No technique, but that may be taught!" She pushed Triana firmly aside. "Not enough time for that. Stay with the flabby and skinny ones. You will operate the nerve center; Sheila, Sally and I will lead the assault!"

"Do you know where he's been taken?" Triana asked.

"He is hidden in the belowground, beneath the sewers, in an abandoned subway car. Mol's lips twitched.

"Think he was into the Ninja Turtles?" 24 whispered to 21.

"God, the second movie was TERRIBLE. If he sat through it he really IS a monster."

"SILENCE!" Mol shouted. "To the subways, my comrades - and destiny!"

**

The small band of heroes, meanwhile, followed Molotov's last clue to the same destination. "They'd crawled into an open access manhole by the tracks, where a treacherous climb led to a dark, dank crawl toward the door before them.

Disconcerted, Brock nevertheless tried to stay on-task. "My own brother," he muttered. "After all this time..."

"Samson, now's not the time for you to get all emo on us!" complained the Monarch. "Emo? Isn't that what the kids are saying?" he asked Rocket, who shrugged.

"Tried so damn hard to protect him. couldn't stop the kids in school....twisted his mind," Brock muttered. "I'm gonna have to kill him..."

"Woah, no one said anything about death," complained The Monarch. "I just got this suit back from the cleaners!"

Brock seized his former foe by the collar and shook him. "DAMN IT, this isn't about you!"

"DON'T DROP ME DAMN YOU!"

"LOOK OUT!" JJ called.

The world turned black for all four of them with merciful quickness.

***

"Deany bo Beany?"

Dean opened one eye and looked at Myra. She waited in the doorway. "Have you finished your little story, hon?"

"I kind of started it," Dean was surprised by the rustiness of his tone. He cleared his throat. "I'm not finished yet."

"That's too bad, sweetie. I'm here to take you to see him..."

Dean gulped. "Oh. Okay..." He grabbed the pile of paper in his left hand and waited for Myra to unshackle him.� Obediently, he allowed himself to be led away, down the green-painted hallway.

The third door on the left was open, and Myra led him firmly inside. "Be good, young man," she ordered him, closing the door behind him.

The office was grandly appointed, lined with books. A desk stood at the far end of the room - deep brown in contrast with the crimson walls - and Dean managed to stutter out a cautious "hello?"

"We meet at last, Mister Venture!" cried the chair's occupant as he turned to face him.

Dean gasped. "Brock?"


	6. Chapter 6

The man's visage hardened as he tilted his head slightly to the left, showing Dean a long, jagged scar that marred the once-shadowed left side of the man's face. His charming smile turned to a scowl, seconds before he rose to his full height. "That name...how I loathe it."

Dean let out an audible gasp as the man towered over him. "I...I'm sorry mister...sir...man?"

The other man gave Dean an arrogant up-and-down glance. "So this is the mighty Dean Venture, playwright extraordinaire." He steepled his knuckles beneath his chin. "Do you have any idea how many lives you've touched, Dean? How many people you've...angered?" 

"Yes...I mean, no...Sir?" Dean's voice creaked and died, his eyes darting about the study. It was like staring into an IV bag of blood - red everywhere, and nothing but. 

A grim smile. "I suppose you wouldn't." he pushed his chair back. "Dean, I've been a...follower...of yours for years now. I've shared with Johnny Starfall the joys and triumphs of ten long years. His journey to Rainbow Peak moved me in ways that cannot be described in mere words." His expression darkened. "But your last novel was a bit...sub-par. For example, on page fifty-seven you stated the magical land of Thorzinia 'lies somewhere over Mount Panic.' But in 'Johnny Starfall and the Land of Happiness,' the land of Thorzinia is in the lows of West Kittenopolis." He glowered. "Mere slips of the tongue are tolerable, but in these FILTH-filled pages, you murdered the most wonderful person in the history of the fiction." 

Dean mentally scrambled for the right name. The man snarled and, with lightening-fast quickness, reached across the desk and backhanded Dean. "Lucretia Witchington!" he shouted. "The name of that dear, sweet cherub was Lucretia Witchington!!" He glared down at Dean. "

"Lucreita!" Dean gasped. "But she was Johnny's evil stepmother!"

"Evil, dear boy, is relative," the man sneered. 

"W-what do you want from me?" Dean wondered, wishing that he could wipe away 

"Write," responded his captor. "Write until Lucretia lives. Write until she finds her true love, Count VonEvil." He turned to walk away. "And none of that 'rocks break and everyone lives' shit. I could get that from reading fanfic on the internet."

Dean sat in silent shock. "But the villains winning...that would be so creepy, so WRONG..."

The man's upper lip trembled. "And why should the good ones be allowed to strut their moral superiority over us all?"

Dean squeezed his eyes closed. "I'm not going to listen to you! You're a monster!"

"A monster?" snarled the man. "I see. You're going to need a little incentive...a..what do authors call them? Advance?" He plucked a small black remote control from the front pocket of his jacket. Pointing it over his shoulder at a maroon curtain at the back of the study, he pressed a red button; Dean watched in amazed horror as it parted, revealing a rectangular glass chamber containing six metal chairs better suited to a prison's gas chamber. 

A steel-plated door on the opposite side of the room rose toward the ceiling, admitting three burly man dressed in exact replicas of Johnny Starfall's stage costume. Under each arm, they carried the unconscious forms of Brock Samson, The Monarch, Jonas Venture, Doctor Orpheus and Rocket Impossible. They proceeded to enter the box through an airtight metal-lined, circular hatch at the front of the containment vessel and strap each man into their chosen seat.

"What are you doing to them?" Dean gasped.

"Nothing, dear mister Venture." He reached across the desk, pulling a maroon velvet cover off of the desk, revealing a gold-plated word processor. "You'll be the one 'doing things' to them." He tapped the top of the computer. "Whenever you lift your fingers from those keys for more than ten seconds, the hydration box fills with an ounce of water. Observe." He pressed a button, activating the device. His minions scattered, gasping and complaining about the chill of the water as they headed back out the hatch, screwing it closed behind them. "Is that an...effective motivation for you?"

Dean shook his head. "I..."

"Bring the children," he called over his shoulder. Dean cried out as Myra pushed her way through the minions clustered by the door, a child under each arm. 

"DADDY!" shrieked Abigail as she kicked and flailed in Myra's grip.

"Ouch! Don't hurt grandma, honey," Myra said, carrying the child toward the tank.

"My-MOM!" Dean cried out. Myra's head swiveled toward Dean, in a way that reminded him of a wind-up robot his father had bought him when he was three. A vague memory of an explosion, of a shudder of sparks, made him shake. "MOM. PLEASE DON'T."

Myra looked down at little Jonas and Abby, her eyes as blank as a porcelain doll's. She looked to her friend. "Should I, Abey?"

Dean's captor shook his head. "They need to be cleansed, Myra. If they're not, your family will never be reunited."

"MOM! Don't listen to him," Dean cried out. "He's a..." another backhand. Dean's hands flew away from the keys in a self-protective gesture, and another gush of cold water filled the case.

Myra gasped. "Don't talk to your new stepfather that way!" She glowered at Dean as she opened the hatch, spilling out a small amount of water as she placed Jonas and Abby inside of the cage. "He knows what's best for this family, don't you, pudding?"

"Of course...sweetheart," said Abe, insincerely. "Come," he held out his hand, pressing another button. "We'll wait in the anteroom for Dean to finish." 

 

As the door slammed closed behind them, water started to surge upward incrementally. Dean realized that Abe Samson was right - he kept pounding his fingers against the keys. Abruptly, a fuzzy image of Abe's face appeared on the screen. "That's cheating, Dean. Type real sentences. I'll be watching..."

Dean tried to think of anything but the horrifying sight before him. He began to type something that approximated a new beginning for Johnny as he opened his mouth and shouted Brock's name.

*** 

The sound of his name being screamed dragged Brock from the netherworld of sleep with an abrupt jerk. He blinked as he regained his bearings and noticed his surroundings. Dean's blanched face stood out starkly a few feet away.

"DEAN!" he bellowed. 

 

"BROCK!" Dean whined. "I don't know what to do! Tell me what to do."

 

"Don't panic!" Brock offered, then he noticed the two children desperately treading water by his knees, Abigail treading water with her arm around her brother's neck. "ABBY!" Brock called to the girl, who gave him her terrified attention. "Put your arm on my knee and push up." As she tried to follow his request, Brock began to jerk against his bonds, pulling as hard as he could against the steely bonds holding him down. He heard an encouraging rending sound just as the water closed over Abigail's shoulders. 

"Abby, take a deep breath," Brock instructed, as he unshackled his ankles and reached over to do the same to the Monarch and Rocket beside him. He grabbed the girl and her brother, cradling them both against his chest as he used his free hand to free the rest of. 

Beside him, the others began to waken with exclamations of fear and surprise. "Damn it, Samson, I just got this dry-cleaned," the Monarch muttered as he started treading water. 

A lame joke about the Monarch being 'all wet' danced on the tip of Brock's tongue for just a second, before he grunted and pointed upward. "Keep treading water until we reach the top of this thing. We're going out through that ceiling vent. DEAN! I'll come back for you! Whatever you do, don't touch those keys!" Dean had stopped typing a long time ago, as he gawked at the horrifying sight before him. Then to Abigail, Brock said, "take a deep breath and hold it when we get to the top."

"Mister Samson! Give me the children!" Orpheus called out.

"Lemme handle this, Orpheus!" A look of utter fear crossed the girl's face. "Trust me, kid. Just...trust me!" 

And a gush of water blocked out Brock's vision, clogged his nose. He sputtered and gagged, paddling upward through the waves of liquid as they filled the tank. He kept Abigail and little Jonas' heads above water, and his eyes on his companions, as they floated toward the ceiling. The Monarch sputtered his disgust; Jonas Jr and Rocket kept up admirably, with the ease that seemed to be inherently theirs; Orpheus kept trying to recite a spell, only to be cut off by surge after surge of water. Brock reached up and grabbed onto a small bit of edging with his free hand, pulling Abigail and Jonas the third up onto his chest. He pressed against the wall of glass behind him as he hauled Orpheus and The Monarch toward the surface. Someone had pressure-treated the glass, he realized, as he braced his feet against the glass and began to work loosed a series of construction-grade screws holding the vent closed. He stripped them out as quickly as he could, then shoved the vent upward, helping the entire group to pile into the shaft. 

Brock had to allow himself a moment of rest as he gasped for more air. "All right?" he asked Abigail, who nodded, and clung to him. 

The Monarch gloated beside him. "You though you got me, dickweed? No one can defeat the Mighty Monarch!" 

Brock grunted and rubbed his temples. "Yeah, we'll see how right you are."

 

"Nyet," a familiar voice said. "We will not accept defeat!" 

Brock looked up to see Mol standing there...with the group of women. 

"Mommy!" Abigail cried out, before Brock could hush her. Triana was on it, and she pressed a finger to her lips. Abigail understood immediately, nodding her head and zipping her lips. 

"Mol, what the hell're you..." 

She said nothing, extinguishing her cigarette against the sole of her boot. "Your enemy waits below, Samson. There is but one layer of iron between the two of you. I have raised my army," she smirked. "Yours is rampant, then?" she teased, stroking his chest with the very tips of her fingers. "Ready to charge?"

"Y-uh, yeah," Brock cleared his throat, moving a step back from her. "All right, let's go!"

He turned around, raising a chorus of disgusted groans from his men, The Monarch's voice rising above them all, "it's like he's got Pinocchio's hiding in his jock!"

*** 

Triana watched the ensuing m�l�e from with horrified interest. Having sent Abigail and little Jonas to safer ground outside through the grating, and the arms of 21 and 24, she worried less for the safety of her family, more for the safety of Brock. It had been a bloody but satisfying battle, and each member of their combined parties had tackled a member of Abe's party. By now, only two of the villainous minions were left standing. Molotov sparred with Myra, seeming to enjoy every hit and punch she delivered to the unstable woman, while Brock circled his brother. 

The others sat nearby, watching with great interest and immune to the gore surrounding them, Dean included. 

"Five bucks on Samson," The Monarch offered to Orpheus.

"Only a fool would bet against Brock," retorted the sorcerer. 

Molotov and Myra's struggle proved far messier. Both women were covered in bruises and contusions from their brawl - Myra's jaw showed swelling, and Molotov had developed a slight limp.

"Give it up, Cocktease," sneered the ex-Gladiator. "Your Ruskie tricks don't have any chance against my all-American womanpower!"

"Tell it to 'em, Myra," laughed Abe, as he lashed out with his weapons-grade replica of Johnny Starfall's Rainbowcaster - a long sword with a spiked metal star at the end of it.

"Abe, you don't have to do this," Brock pled. 

"You've always been the deluded one, brother," he snarled. "Brock the jock, always the popular one. You never noticed how hard it was to be stuck in your shadow."

"Hey, I tried to help - it wasn't my fault that you were so...you...and you were the weird one who kept hanging upside-down for hours at recess."

"THEY HUNG ME FROM THE MONKEY BARS BY THE MY WAISTBAND!" howled Abe. "I took refuge in the world of books because of the cruelty heaped upon me at school. Soon, the fictional characters I read about were the closest thing I had to a friends, a family..."

 

"Mom and I were always there for you, Abe."

"That's bullshit and you know it. Who had me packed off to a military school as soon as he turned eighteen? Mom was barely cold in her grave!"

Brock winced. "I just had my first assignment, and you were too young..."

"I was too young to be stuck in that hellhole. You've never learned that there's a difference between us, Brock, that what's paradise for you's hell for me." He swept around his brother. "I'm glad I went. With the knowledge I amassed, I built my financial empire. The things you valued least I used to make my millions, and with those millions I vowed to build myself the ultimate library. Among those stacks I allowed myself to fall in love with the work of Dean Venture. Dean Venture who BETRAYED my trust! Just as you did."

Brock said nothing, but his expression showed utter incredulity as he seemed to realize that this lunatic was his brother. She felt Dean's fingers tighten against her shoulder.

Abe laughed mirthlessly. "I've finally realized something," his voice took on a hysterical edge, "all of the hatred I've wasted on Mister Venture, all of the resources I've spent to gather this rouge's gallery of morons, when I should have concentrated on ridding the world of your presence." He glowered. "The earth is too precious to have to endure your blood, Brock."

Triana watched Brock's expression change from fear to eyeball-twitching, jaw-locked rage. 

"Kill me if you can, brother dear..." he smirked. Triana blinked at the sudden sound of a trigger being pulled, a rubberband snapping. A spume of red poured from his mouth, dripped out of his mouth, as he fell forward in a twisted heap to the rug.

Behind him stood Molotov, a pistol still smoking in her hand. At her heel, Myra lay, bound tight with several thongs made of leather.

"Comparing yourself to a God is a mortal sin," she declared simply.

*** 

"It wasn't your fight, Mol," Brock protested. The control room buzzed with activity as various military personnel secured the scene. 

She blew a puff of smoke out. "He was threatening my Samson. No man threatens my Samson."

Brock gave her a wan smile. "What about the women?"

She smiled dangerously. "Fiji, 1988." 

Brock's breath hissed out. "The Cambodian double-agent."

"Her eyes were a violation to your body."

"So was that twelve-inch scimitar." 

She smiled. "Such pleasant memories, Samson. A pity we shall not have the time to make any more." 

Brock hesitated for a moment. He considered the dangerous joy that being with Mol twenty-four hours a day could bring. An agony/ecstasy that fired his blood. How easy it would be to give in and say 'yeah, I'll quit, I'll be with you.'

At his weakest moment, it was Abigail who tugged upon his pantleg. Her eyes held a pleading quality Brock had never seen. Four hours ago, this kid was afraid of me. Now she's looking up at me like she'll die if I leave.

In a moment, his decision was galvanized. 

"Sorry, Mol." 

"Uh, Brock," Dean approached from behind him, "you really don't have to, if you don't want to. Every great bodyguard deserves a vacation."

Brock felt a wave of chagrin as he realized half of the room's occupants were staring at he and Mol. "You know you can't do without me."

"Nah, I think things'll be super peachy keen from here on out," he said breezily. "I've already got a couple of neato guys who would do a really good job watching out for us."

He pointed over his shoulder, where 21 and 24 were interrogating a solider who wanted to approach Dean for an autograph for trivia from the Johnny Starfall universe. Apparently only true fans were allowed to approach 'The Deanster'.

Brock watched the too doofs with a single brow raised. "You're sure about that...Deanster?"

"Sure!" He grinned. "You've done a whole lot for the Ventures, Brock. By golly, you've earned a break."

Brock laughed, ready to affirm his comment, when a sudden shriek rose from the crowd. He couldn't stifle the gasp that crowded his throat - the wall supporting the water tank had begun to give way, releasing a wall of water that loomed threateningly over the room's occupants.

Doctor Orpheus opened his mouth to shout an incantation, but it was Triana who came up with the right words. "Hydro un dryosian!" 

And the entire wall of water froze in mid-collapse. 

Triana blinked up at it. "Uh, dad, what the hell did I..."

Orpheus beamed. "Your gifts, Pumpkin! It's taken longer than I expected, but you've finally come in to them!"

"My gifts? Dad, I thought sorcery was some creepy thing you learned at school!"

"Not precisely! Some are natural sorcerers. I hoped that you might be one after all," he beamed, wrapping Triana up in a bear hug. "I've never been prouder of you."

"Uh..." Triana panicked. 

Dean reached out for her. "Wow, my wife's a wizard! Just like Samantha in 'Bewitched'!" 

Triana groaned as Brock laughed. "You're all right, Dean. You're really all right."

 

**** 

Three days later, Brock Samson stood on the rooftop of a Viennese hotel. Beside him, Molotov rattled off the misdeeds of their target. 

"...Rapist. Con artist. Arms trafficker. He's worth a hundred grand," she screwed a scope onto her rifle. "Dead or alive." I will take aim, you will spark the distraction." An organic tilting of her lips followed. "I have missed this, Samson."

 

Brock Samson grinned.

This adventure - their adventure - had just begun to unfold.

THE END


End file.
